


forever is a mighty long time

by noyabeans (snowdrops)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 07:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11054175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowdrops/pseuds/noyabeans
Summary: kuroo remembers lifetimes upon lifetimes, and maybe the same cannot be said of yaku, but that's okay.





	forever is a mighty long time

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [đằng đẵng, ấy một thiên thu vô tận](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111982) by [yourunproblematic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourunproblematic/pseuds/yourunproblematic)



> as with all reincarnation aus, there are some scenes of death and violence, but nothing graphic.

     the touch of him is like a flash of lightning, a shock of relief as a millennia of memories, an eternity of familiarity, and a great yearning suddenly take root in his heart. unbidden rises the name of the boy opposite him, hand still clasped in their post-match handshake, a voice he has heard in his dreams for times uncountable: yaku morisuke.

     he hasn’t so much as seen yaku as he has felt his presence in between dreams, wakefulness and sleep. sometimes he is warm, a heartbeat pulsing in time to kuroo’s own; other times he is cold, silent and watchful. on occasion, in some universes, kuroo knows that they are not allies, much less friends -

     this is hardly the first time that he has fallen by yaku’s hand.

     there is no grand reunion, no indication so much whatsoever that he is remembered or recognised. yaku walks away, colours of his jersey burning into the backs of kuroo’s eyelids. if this is how they meet this life, only a passing glimpse on opposite sides of the court, then he'll make it count as best as he can.

     maybe in their next life, they'll get a better chance.

* * *

     the door chimes; he looks up just in time to see two boys walk in, tracking water into the café. a storm is brewing outside, “the worst this year” says the weatherman, but the way the two newcomers talk, voices bright and loud as they settle down in a seat near the back, is more resemblant of a sunny summer day than a rainy autumn evening.

     he wipes his hands on his apron as he hands a waiting customer her cinnamon cappuccino; the two boys approach the counter, and he notes that both of them are short, probably more than a twenty-centimetre gap between himself and them. but there is nothing small about the way the first one places his order, voice loud and eyes bright, hair gelled up with an amount of meticulousity that kuroo himself understands all too well. “one iced mocha, please!”

     as he punches in the order in the register, he hears someone say “you really don’t need any more caffeine in you, yuu” in between a laugh and a scoff. the boy named yuu turns, and kuroo watches the other come into view, eyes raking over the dark brown eyes and light sandy hair, so oddly – familiar.

     “don’t be like that, morisuke!” yuu says, and something seems to click in the back of kuroo’s mind, even as morisuke steps up to the counter, politely smiling, voice smooth like caramel, “one toffee nut latte.”

     kuroo represses the urge to snort – who drinks _toffee nut latte_ – and dips his head instead, wondering why he feels like he’s heard this voice before.

     they offer each other another polite smile as kuroo takes morisuke’s money, and morisuke takes his drink, before taking yuu’s hand and walking back to their table in the corner of the café.

     much like how they’d entered, morisuke and yuu leave the café with a tinkling door chime and the smell of autumn rainfall.

* * *

     it’s dark when they sneak out, quiet and unseen, invisible shadows in a slumbering city. the cobblestones shift a little as they run down streets they've known since childhood, hands that once cupped bug jars bow holding white anonymous boxes with medication inside.

     they can make their way to the sanctuary with their eyes closed, so many times they've ventured there in the dead of night, boys on a mission to save people in a war the world has turned a blind eye to.

     today, something feels odd: he pauses one turn before the final stretch. yaku stops three steps later; looks back in wordless question. the clock is ticking, a reminder of the curfew they are breaking.

     it's not kuroo’s style to worry, but the wind itself seems to carry an air of unease he can't shake. “we'll be okay,” yaku says, reaching a hand out to rest on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. “we always have.”

     he trusts yaku more than he trusts anyone else in the world, so he nods and they keep going. but then they turn the corner and he sees yaku get thrown to the ground, a figure in military garb holding him down, before he hears a gunshot ring out, and the box in his hand clatters to the ground.

* * *

     sometimes it’s a near miss, like when he sees a small figure walk past on the opposite side of the road near the neighbourhood mall, clad in a bright blue jacket as he makes his way through the crowds, hands tucked in pockets and hood drawn up. even without seeing his face, kuroo _knows_ who it is.

     maybe they’ll meet again -

     but they don’t. three years later, he moves away from osaka without ever seeing yaku again.

     maybe there’s just never a second chance for them. he tucks the information away, hopes that the next time they won’t be parted by traffic, hopes that the next time he’ll get a chance to run after yaku, hopes that their meeting won’t slip right through his fingers like it has in this life.

* * *

     the world is ablaze, sky painted red and ground doused with crimson blood. blood coats both blade and hilt of his sword; he wipes it down against the grass where he is lying in wait for the next unfortunate soul who should come into his line of attack.

     this war has gone on for far too long: he was never trained for battle, but in the two years that the nations have been in conflict, he has learned to wield his sword like he once held a pen, its grip familiar and soothing in his hand. almost he might have forgotten what it feels like to put pen to paper, so long he has not touched one.

     there’s a steady thudding of heavy boots making their way up the hill towards where kuroo lies in wait. it’s a lone ranger. an enemy soldier who broke away from his ranks? a recce, staking out new territory? either way, kuroo is honour-bound to ensure no intruder enters this land, not while he lives and breathes.

     his ambush of the intruder startles him enough to stumble a few steps backwards. the other soldier is noticeably shorter in stature, but there’s barely any pause between when he loses his balance and fights back. through his visor kuroo can make out nothing besides fierce brown eyes, alight with the fire of war.

     the soldier’s attacks are surprisingly strong considering his size, but war has taught kuroo to never underestimate his enemies. he snarls as he parries, an angry hiss as metal meets metal, because if this invader thinks he can enter the holy lands alive, he can think again. little his life might be, but kuroo will lay it down for the nation.

     when he finally lands the fatal blow, his sword slices through the enemy’s helm and casts it off. warm liquid splatters against himself as he swings his blade away, even as he feels the cool slide of metal against his abdomen.

     how appropriate that he should be slain by this hand, he thinks through foggy vision and blinding white spots, a gurgled apology in his throat as he watches the body in front of him slump to the ground, a face that he would’ve recognised anywhere now lost to the clutches of death.

* * *

     he finds out how it feels to have his heart fall into the pits of his stomach when a private message pops up on his screen as he’s resting between battles. it’s from the healer he’s always been partying with, username catsuke88, real name yaku morisuke according to his facebook profile. he smiles as he clicks it, only to read:

 _i’m quitting_ , yaku’s message writes, a sad emoticon tacked on at the end. kuroo feels his stomach lurch, dread rising in his chest, even as he types out a reply: _you accepted the scholarship?_

 _yeah_ , yaku writes. _i decided on europe._

     there’s nothing for it, then – after all, in all of their interactions both in-game and off, kuroo’s been encouraging yaku to go for this prestigious scholarship, despite all of yaku’s trepidations and worries. he should be _happy_ that yaku’s accepting it.

     but he’s not. not really, because he’s grown used to having yaku in his party, having yaku playing as healer, having yaku yelling at him through skype as they take down harder boss after harder boss, like _stupid kuronyanko get your goddamn tank ass out of the way, if you keep blocking kenma’s attacks i’m not going to heal you!_ and later, when they talked about meeting up someday, _i’m going to kick your ass if we ever meet in real life_.

     without yaku, everything about gaming will change. but who is he to tell yaku that, to ask yaku so selfishly not to go? everyone has a life outside of the gaming world, and he has no right to ask yaku to give that up. 

 _oh_ , he decides to write instead. _are you sure they’ll be able to see you there?_  

 _jerk_ , yaku retorts, and even though kuroo has only ever seen him in photos on facebook, has only heard his voice through the crackly static of a mic, he imagines that yaku’s smiling, maybe a little, the way that he’s seen yaku smile in photos of himself and that half-russian friend of his.

     maybe now would be a good time for him to write _i’ll miss you_ , or _thanks for the past two years of gaming_ , but kuroo finds himself writing instead, _come back someday, hopefully_.

     there’s a long pause where yaku doesn’t reply – the screen shows that he’s typing, but the message never actually sends, until it does. _yeah, maybe._ _maybe we’ll meet again._

     it’s not a yes, and it’s not a no. it’s more than kuroo has any right to ask for.

 _ah well, you know where to find me outside of the game,_ yaku says later. _drop me a message anytime._

 _likewise to you_.

     years later he’s scrolling through his facebook page when he sees that yaku has updated a life event on his account – “moved to estonia”.

* * *

     this must be some kind of far-fetched, impossible dream, kuroo thinks. they have never met twice, so the one in front of him is definitely some doppelganger of sorts. maybe he’s yaku morisuke’s twin? wait. maybe this is the real yaku morisuke and the one he met in the middle school tournament was yaku morisuke’s twin -

     “i’m yaku morisuke,” the real yaku morisuke says. yup, it was probably his twin that kuroo saw.

     “i know you,” kuroo says.

     yaku cocks his head up at him then, cocky and arrogant and wary all at once. “have we met before?”

     the words echo in kuroo’s head like a whisper from the past; like a silent movie a scene flashes, of two men in a room, a firm handshake and a pen scribbling illegible on paper.

     nah, kuroo decides - this is definitely the same yaku morisuke that he met three years ago and lifetimes before.

* * *

     to have everything in your hand, and yet be on the brink of losing it all - it’s one of the rare times that yaku’s awake: his hand is warm against kuroo’s own, and he’s smiling, even though the amount of agony he must be enduring is beyond what kuroo can imagine. in the midst of the beeping of the machines around them, and the tubes connected to his body, yaku looks so small, so fragile lying in the bed that kuroo feels the tears threaten to well up.

     it’s only for yaku’s dignity that he swallows them back, puts on the bravest, strongest front he can assume. yaku blinks up at him, sleepy and pale, a fleeting moment of lucidity that kuroo hasn’t seen in a while.

     “hey,” he murmurs, too soft, too quiet, such a far cry from his usual voice.

     kuroo almost chokes on the “hey” he tries to say in answer; it comes out as a warbled, shaky word. 

     “you know, kuroo,” yaku says, the words slow to form against his tongue, his brow furrowing slightly as he struggles with his body. “let’s- let’s meet again. in our next life. make up for everything we didn’t get to do this time.” 

     then he breaks into another smile, _god_ , and kuroo feels himself collapse into himself, even as yaku says, “don’t cry, dumbass. it’s not the last you’re getting of me.”

* * *

     people rush by, endless movement and shades of colour - the sidewalk is drab in comparison, littered with fallen petals from the shedding trees. someone walks up to his easel; he takes a moment to look up at them, immersed as he is in his mission to capture the last days of spring in watercolour.

     “what are you painting?” the person says, and kuroo’s attention is drawn immediately to the light ends of hair he can see sticking out from under the other’s cap. sandy and curled, almost like - _his_. the cap throws a shadow over the boy’s face, but he can just make out intense brown eyes, boring into his own.

     “people,” kuroo says simply, praying that his voice doesn’t waver with tremulous hope.

     “can you draw me?” the boy asks, head tilting to a side; light catches the side of his jaw, and kuroo watches the way his lips curve into a smile.

     a flourish, as the boy pulls his cap off. dappled sunlight scatters on his features, and kuroo pauses, quelling the despair that suddenly spews forth.

_so close._

     but _he_ doesn’t have freckles. he doesn’t know how he knows - maybe a suppressed memory, maybe a long-forgotten dream buried in the back of his mind - but he knows that this boy in front of him is not _him_.

     “i’m sakishima, by the way!” the boy says, grinning up at him, and kuroo notes the slight crookedness of teeth, the smattering of freckles as he literally glows up at him, and kuroo thinks - what is there to lose, really?

     “sure, i’m kuroo.”

* * *

     there is no justice in life, kuroo discovers one day, kneeling at the altar in front of stained glass windows, sunlight casting the image of mother mary on the rows of empty coffins laid out neatly in front of the cross. the akuma poison leaves no remnants: it spreads through the bloodstream and breaks the body down from inside out, irreversible, incurable; it is a matter of moments before everything turns to dust.

     he shuts his eyes, tries to remember what yaku said the night before that last mission, when they were lying tangled in between sheets and each other’s limbs, sweat still cooling on heated skin, moonlight cold and pale in the darkness.

     “who would we be if not exorcists?”

     “are you having an occupational crisis,” kuroo had asked, blowing lightly on yaku’s ear; yaku had squirmed in protest, though he’d remained flush against kuroo’s body.

     “nah, just wondering what it would be like to live a normal life with you.”

     kuroo had laughed, hands wrapping around yaku’s back as he pulled him down for a kiss, gentle and lazy, nothing like the desperate ones from a short while ago. “when the war ends, we’ll find out.”

     “i’m holding you to that promise.”

     and maybe that conversation had been one fraught with foolish hope, that mortal warriors assuming superhero roles would be able to slay all the monsters clad in human skin and emerge victorious, that they would have a happy ending like the one they’d so desperately wished for.

* * *

     destiny is a fragile balance between time and fate and place, he muses as he walks away from an interview with yaku morisuke, ceo of a highly successful restaurant chain, whose first words to him were a strangely hesitant, “have we met before? you look familiar.” 

     he’d shaken his head then, caught off-guard by the question – “maybe you’ve seen me on tv, i used to be a broadcast journalist.” 

     yaku had hummed, before nodding quietly in agreement. kuroo wonders why he’d asked, and only later thinks to question the strange tugging feeling that gnawed at him when they shook hands.

* * *

     his heartbeat sounds louder than a taiko drum, his footsteps drowning out the snap of twigs and branches underfoot as he pounds his way away from the village, the crackle and roar of destruction in his wake. his chest is tight, smoke in his lungs as he struggles to breathe, stumbling through the undergrowth towards the river, eyes never tearing away from kai’s back as they run.

     once across the river they stop; some of the other villagers have already reached, and many others are following close behind. his gaze sweeps over the huddled group, searching - always searching - for the familiar mop of hair tied back and upwards, for the firm and unyielding voice echoing through the ranks.

     but his search is futile - with rising worry he turns to kai, who turns to shibayama, who turns to someone else, and somewhere in the crowd comes a loud call from a voice he recognises as chief nekomata’s: “where is yaku morisuke?”

     another person pushes forward: a girl from the other side of the village, one of yaku’s neighbours. “yaku-kun ran back,” she says, voice tremulous as she looks at kuroo in pleading. “h-he said he heard someone scream for help and told us to go ahead.”

     the crowd falls silent. kuroo’s heart sinks, despair a heavy weight drawing his breath short. yaku may be a skilled mage, but his abilities lie in the air and wind; he is hardly equipped to fight the forces of fire, especially one of such scale as this. yet he cannot bring himself to be angry, because yaku is - has always been - as self-sacrificial as this.

     he’s turning away to look ahead, eyes blindly searching in the reflection of the fire on the water, unsure of what he should say or do next, when a sudden call rises from the back of the crowd, a shocked gasp rippling through the people.

     “kuroo, it’s-”

     he whips his head around; like the red sea the villagers have parted, a slight figure clad in soot-covered cloak stumbling towards him, a boy draped unconscious over his shoulders. it can’t be -

     some people rush out to carry the unconscious boy, and yaku casts off his hood; in the light of the blaze raging on the opposite shore, his hair glows red and fiery, and he’s wearing a small grin as he steps up to kuroo with purpose - “what was that look on your face? did you think i would die from a simple forest fire?”

     “for a moment, yeah,” kuroo admits, swallowing thickly as he suddenly remembers how to breathe.

* * *

     time, age and place don’t matter - he’s lost track of what he remembers and what he dreams of, and sometimes deigns to wonder if his memories are those from a past life, or another life in a parallel universe somewhere else.

     but his favourite memory is still that of them sitting on the beach in the early evening, the ocean at their feet and sand sticking to their bodies, watching the sun's descent. somewhere behind them from the restaurant’s patio a jazz song had started, saxophone notes floating and hovering around and over, a melody to fill the silence between their voices and the ocean.

     he remembers the feeling of sand between their interlocked fingers, the salty sea breeze nipping at their cheeks, and the way yaku had pulled him down for a kiss, insistent and rough, yet somehow terribly romantic.

     “yakkun,” he’d murmured some time later when the music had drifted away, just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon and their conversation fell into a comfortable lull, lapping waves their only soundtrack.

     “hm?”

     “do you believe in reincarnation?”

     yaku had turned to look at him, eyes bright and wide and so full of adoration kuroo had to remind himself to breathe.

     “yeah,” yaku had said, and his fingers had curled around kuroo’s own, warm and strong and a little bit forceful.

     “same,” kuroo breathed out, steeled himself for what might be the cheesiest line he'd ever said. “and yakkun…”

     “hm?”

     “i think i wouldn’t mind spending every life with you.”

     that drew a pause from yaku; kuroo half-expected him to cast his hand away, so allergic yaku was to any display of affection, but instead yaku let out a soft woosh of air, puffing up the hair that had fallen into his eyes.

     “that doesn’t sound too bad.”

     “i know, right.”

     “don’t make me take that back.”

* * *

     fate and destiny are not so far in concept as they would so seem. if it is one thing that kuroo has discovered, it is that some things are preordained and others a result of them; that some things result only from choices consciously made - he might have seen lifetimes upon lifetimes in the limbo of memory, might have spent years, decades, millennia searching the world, scouring continents and oceans for a single person, but if fate did not dictate it, he would not be here.

     “here” is a subjective term, because here is today and now and at the kitchen table with yakkun with papers spread between them and a volleyball on his leg. “here” is the future and the past, the time and place of which matter not as long as he is by yaku’s side.

     “you know,” yaku says, looking up from his practice papers at some time kuroo doesn’t notice. “sometimes i think i’ve known you for a very long time.”

     and maybe yaku doesn’t remember, all the years and years piled behind them that have brought them here, but that’s okay - because what matters is right in front of him, right here, right now. 

     kuroo stretches a little, his toes touching the calf of yaku’s leg, warm, solid and present, and very much alive. very much _here_. “yeah, i know.”

**Author's Note:**

> title from [Diamonds Are Forever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NS8_tp1Qqok) by The Cab.
> 
> [mild manga spoiler] this is [Sakishima](https://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/haikyuu/images/e/e2/SakishimaManga.PNG/revision/latest?cb=20161130234647). 
> 
> this fic was written in a completely (?) different style from my usual, so feedback would be really appreciated!
> 
> Catch me at:
> 
> [tumblr (rielity)](https://rielity.tumblr.com/) | [twitter (noyabeans)](https://twitter.com/noyabeans) | [haikyuu writing journal](https://noyabeans.dreamwidth.org/)
> 
> I'm also on Team Grandstand for SASO, so come bait me if you want!


End file.
